Weeds in the Garden

These weeds grow wild and free on my property.

This piece features one of my photographs mounted on cradled wood board. I’ve coated it with several layers of gel medium to create a faux encaustic look.  I love the aged feel it has.

Sometimes I think passion is something Life Coaches made up

When was the last time you got excited about something? Quivering excited? Jump up and down excited?

I have a hard time remembering the last time I got excited. Partly because I rarely do anything exciting and I avoid getting excited to avoid being disappointed.

It’s really fucking sad.

It’s not how I want to spend the rest of my days.

I want to find something I’m passionate about and allow myself feel that passion sear through my veins.

There is a level of commitment that comes with being so passionate about something that it burns you up. It kinda scares me. It takes an investment that I’m not sure I want to make. Drive that I’m not sure I have.

I’ve cultivated a safe life of mild disinterest.

Oh well, I didn’t really give a fuck anyway, method of living. 

Safe. Comfortable. Boring as hell.

It’s easy not being passionate about anything. It takes zero effort.

Admitting that you give all the fucks you have to give about a thing, that’s hard. Things might not work out. People will shit on the thing you love. Who wants to risk that?

Not many of us, but  amazing things happen when we find what we are passionate about and allow ourselves to go after it at full tilt.

At least I think amazing things happen. I’ve heard stories.

I’m still looking for my passion. I don’t know if I haven’t found it or I have and it’s such a strange feeling that I don’t know what it is when I feel it. Or I’m too chicken shit to admit to it.

What do I love the fuck out of? Other than my husband and kids?

Honestly, the work I’m trying to do here. It’s in the art, the stories, the poems and the intuitive workings.

I also think it’s in something I haven’t found yet. Something I think I’d enjoy, but don’t really know because I’ve never done it before. I’ve got to work on having more of those experiences.

What do you love the fuck out of?

 

 

 

There is another life out there and I want it.

I’m not happy.

Yes, I have things to be happy about and I love everyone one of them, but I’m not happy.

This isn’t the life I want to be living. It’s a total asshole thing to say. It’s selfish. It’s like telling my husband he isn’t good enough. Which isn’t remotely true.

Maybe discontent is a better word. No. No, it’s not.

There is too much content-ness going on here. Settled. Comfortable. Suffocating. Binding.

I want something different. Long for. Crave.

The ache of this unknow unlived life pulses with every beat of my heart.

The pounding of a drum trying to change the dance without knowing how.

I want to travel. Let my bare feet touch the ground in new strange places. Stay long enough to know if I’ve found a new home.

I want a wildly successful business that supports me in every way. That sets me on fire and helps me spread that fire. Burn the world down.

I want lazy mornings in bed. Sheets that feel like heaven against my skin. Sex.

I want clothes that help me feel amazing. That fit. That are just as sexily geeky and gothy as I am.

I want a healthy body. One that performs all the tasks I need it to. Without suffering. Body love with ease.

I want a home to come home to. A house with working parts. Comfortable and beautiful spaces. Welcoming spaces. Sanctuary.

I want a car. Maybe two. A classic car that screams sex. The perfect gleaming black paint job. A truck that works hard. Roaring engine. Mud fling tires. Ever part performing to perfection. Creams jeans.

Bonfires. Starry skies. Chocolate. Full body massages.

It gives me the chills just thinking about it. The good chills. The ones you get when your lover brushes their lips along your naked skin.

Delicious fiery destruction of fear.

Burn it down. Rise from the ash.

This keeps repeating in my head. Like a new mantra, but also a message.

A message for me. A message for you.

How do I want to burn? Feral. Wild. Like rum on a fire. Leaving new growth in my wake.

I don’t know what that looks like, yet. I don’t know what container it needs, yet.

I do know it’s a feeling that won’t go away. I thought it would. I thought I could just let things go, do a little painting, a little writing and that somehow, the deep ache would fade away.

It’s not. It’s digging it’s claws in.

I work with fire, tornadoes and raging floods. This is deep work. Hard work. Scary work. This is healing work. It’s the healing that comes from downing a couple of shots, cutting open old wounds, digging out the shrapnel, sterilizing the infection and stitching yourself back together. Then going out for strippers and ice cream.

It freaks me the fuck out. What if I’m not good enough to do this work? What if I can’t escort you through the fire?

If this is how I serve as a Priestess, I must have faith that I can do this work, faith that the Goddesses know what the fuck they are doing.

I’ve been uncertain about where to begin, how to fill this space, but I have to start.

I have nothing to sell you. But I’m burning away. Feverish with desire for the work. I burn for you when you can’t burn for yourself, when your fire has been smothered. Not in a way that keeps your fire from you, but like Bridgid’s sacred flame helping you kindle your spark.

Burn it down. Rise from the ash.

I’m going to be listening to what the Goddesses tell me and doing my best to do what they are asking of me. So this is where I start, with an imperfect beginning.

In the beginning she was formless, flowing, expanding, like lava weeping from deep within the earth.

How do you want to burn?

WTF Did I Just Read: Thug

WTF Did I Just Read is a regular feature (this is the first instalment) all about all the fuckery in romance & erotica fiction. I read this shit so you don’t have to.

The MC was a young ‘curvy’ (code for ‘fat’ but not really ‘fat’). She connects with the jock she had a crush on in high school. They get to the sex and he’s all you’re so beautiful & she’s all I’m such a fat virgin. And shit I couldn’t even read.

The ‘thug’ in this story is a rich white dude who has the privilege to chose to slum it to avoid is jerk family.

While they are having sex, he tells her he loves her, proposes to her, informs her that he is gonna put a baby in her. And somehow has a ethical non-blood diamond diamond in his fucking pocket to give her. She is so happy and says yes to everything because how could a shy fatty not?

OMFG people. Really?

Sure if you’re ok with fat shaming and a complete suspension of your brain.

But he loves her & she’s getting laid. How can that be a bad thing? Be grateful for that pity sex. Bonus points for rushing to the getting married part, because premarital sex is bad.

This story is supposed to be about a girl who has some bad shit happen to her, but she grows up to be independent and takes care of herself. Hell, she has a ‘dangerous man job’ and goes into seedy parts of town all on her own. Badass right?

No. It’s not safe for women to be out alone. She shouldn’t be wandering around with a man to protect her. To prove this point she is attacked. Which is totally surprising because we know she safely hid all her curvy bits under a trench coat. She is not a slut, y’all.

This also works as a great way for the man she is looking for to swoop in and save her. My Prince! Not that she really needed it. She totally kicked that attacker in the balls. Badass remember.

She doesn’t recognize her savior as the man she is looking for, because of beards. In real life beards work like Wonder Woman/Supergirl/Superman glasses. You put a beard on and no one knows who the fuck you are.

He recognizes her as a girl from school, because she doesn’t have a beard. Just a trench coat, that she’s stuffed her secret hotness into like a brown paper bag.

He tells her has info on the guy she is looking for and she should come back to his place. She’s smart. She hesitates. Then gets over it. It’s totally ok to go home with the stranger who just saved your ass, even if he looks like he has bodies hidden in his beard. Whenever a man rescues you, you must instantly trust him 100%.

I mean, it’s not like he’s a real stranger. Sssshhh she doesn’t know that, only us readers and Mr. Beardy know that.

They go to his creepy dumpy apartment where she realizes this is the man she’s been hired to find, one she knew in high school. Oh the embarrassment of being a fatty in front of your high school crush!

He doesn’t care though. She’s got a cute face.

She is still nervous. Maybe she should leave. Nope it’s fucking raining. When it is raining you have to stay where you are, even if you could be in danger. Women can’t get rained on. We’ll either melt like witches or multiply like Gremlins. Bad business all around.

He starts undressing for no reason other than to continue to be creepy, even though the author keeps telling us he is a nice guy. She doesn’t watch. She is a lady. Not a whore.

It turns out, he needed to change his clothes so she could be totally certain it’s highschool jock boy or some shit.

Now that she knows for sure who he is, everything is totally cool. She kicks her shoes off and sits on the bed with him (bachelor’s don’t have chairs). Everything is totally not sexual and totally safe. It’s made obvious because he is leaning back, stretching out and relaxing. Not tensely perched ready to pounce on her. Not that she’d mind, heh heh the plump little minx.

Anyway, they can’t have sex yet. He needs to save her again so she knows he is a real man and she can keep not being slutty. Que bad guys!

Then there is more rescuing, but she is unconscious to she misses it all. Her state of unconsciousness gives us all another chance to see what a good person he is though, because while he really wants to take her bra off so she can breath better, he doesn’t touch her.

Mr. Beardy is a gentleman, because girls are weird about having their clothes fucked with when they are passed out. He piles a bunch of coats on her so they are both safe from the temptation.

They are in a luxury hotel, because he is disgustingly rich. His family is evil so he’s been living as like a poor dude because he is good. His rich evil family wants him to get married and have babies so they can expand their evil empire.

He is totally against this, but he can’t let his evil brother, who makes Hitler look like a kitten, take over the family fortune. Poor guy can’t get a break. I hate it when you are forced to be horribly rich for the good of all mankind.

She wakes up happy to find herself safe and not raped. She is so glad he saved her. He is so glad her face is pretty and she’s got big boobs, but he has a past. He’s done bad things. Will he still get to see her boobs after she’s learned that he really is bad?

The suspense of this was totally killing me while I was reading.

He confesses his sins. He’s killed. It was a righteous killing, so totally forgivable. Just in case she still wasn’t sure she should have sex with him, his evil twin breaks into their room and points a gun at them. Mr. Beardy handles it like a pro, because he is. He’s trained with some Asian dude he met in the streets. He promptly calls the police, because you can do that when you are a rich white guy.

The police come. She has to explain why Evil Twin is handcuffed, because heaven forbid it is implied anywhere that she might be a little kinky. She is a badass P.I. one of the few acceptable reasons for a unwed woman to be carrying handcuffs. She is innocent and pure like all single women should be.

They finally get to sexy time.

She is nervous. It’s understandable. So she hides in the bathroom, freshening up, ditching her yucky wet panties (heavy petting has consequences like reminding you not to be a such a slut), and giving herself a pep talk. She showers, puts her clothes back on, minus the sin panties, and finally comes out of the bathroom.

They finally get to sexy time.

She lets her big girls out. Which is a polite way of saying fat lady lumps. He drops trow. She nearly faints over the size of his junk. This always makes me imagine dudes modeling whale penises. She is a virgin and giant penises are scary.

She won’t let him take her pants of, because there is no way a guy can know how pants work on fat girls. Removing tight jeans from your fat ass takes practice and skill. So she flops around on the bed like some sort of insane worm.

They finally get to the sexy time.

It’s a quick slam. Wham bam. I love you ma’am. Merry me. I’m sticking a baby in you right fucking now. Have this ethically sourced diamond I’ve been hiding in my shoe or where ever rich dudes that have been slumming it hid their diamonds.

Her body shame is instantly forgotten because a man has just validated her. He proposed so she is safe from the slut shaming she’s been working so hard to avoid. He is rich so she can stay home and be a good proper baby machine.

Lady life goals: Check!